


Res Novae

by shakespearespaz



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespearespaz/pseuds/shakespearespaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Rachel centric AU in which an unlikely alliance is formed, because Revolution should have some revolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The hammer did not have time to build up much momentum, but there was plenty of accurate rage behind Rachel’s swing. It took Strausser in the face, a nasty blow that broke his nose with a sickening crunch and plenty of blood. As he flailed, disoriented, a heavy and angry boot made contact with his stomach, pushing him off balance.

His head brutally connected with the concrete floor, followed by the loud smash of the amplifier hitting the floor next to him. Everything went black.

\--

Captain Baker had one objective—Miles.

This did not stop him from being unsurprised when Rachel Matheson skidded around the corner.

Strausser was supposed to be in charge of her, but he’d never considered Strausser really that competent at anything but causing pain. What he was good at he was good at, but Jeremy knew that Rachel was quicker and cleverer.

“Mrs. Matheson—fancy seeing you here.”

She halted, a deer caught in the head-lights—a deer rapidly trying calculate an escape plan.

“Please, Jeremy. I’ve finished the amplifier—all I want are my children. Monroe doesn’t need me anymore; he’ll just kill me.”

“I doubt he’ll _kill_ you, Rachel. He likes you. Maybe you just haven’t warmed up to him yet.”

He nodded at his men to seize her.

“It’s been six years,” she scoffed, giving Baker the closest thing she could muster to an apologetic look, “Can’t blame me for trying.”

She delivered a sudden, particularly powerful right hook to the man blocking the way she came and she sprinted.

Without second thought Jeremy barked to three of his men, “Take her alive.”

They proceeded after her, hard boots echoing a warning to the fleeing woman.

\--

Rachel was lost.

She had tried to memorize the way into the power station and to her cell, but she was certain now that Monroe had always had her taken the most indirect route. Even if she did recall the way out, she had no idea where Militia men were posted or looking for her or whoever else had stormed the power station.

Finally reaching the long hallway of cell doors, her heart sunk to find it devoid of any life, guard or otherwise.

No Danny or Charlie and the adrenaline pumping through her veins made her want to cry at that fact.

Instead, she took a deep breath and resolved to find and fight her way out of this fortress.

“Rachel?”

She jerked her head up and out of her moment of self-indulgence.

“Miles…”

Unless she was hallucinating, he stood at the end of the hall. He was more bedraggled and filthy than she remembered, but he looked like he’d been fighting, a closer match to the last memory she had of him.

She closed the distance between them quickly, stopping to stare when she reached him.

Rachel slapped him hard and he let her.

Then he grabbed her hand.

“We need to move.”

\--

“Take two.”

Baker thought he was being clever. Miles and Rachel were cornered in a small alcove, hiding from Baker’s men.

“You see, it’s take two for her, because I’ve already seen her once, but take two because it’s the two of you I’m gonna—”

Miles leaned around the corner and shot a couple rounds. It did little to change their predicament, but it did shut Baker up.

“Stop shooting, Matheson.”

Miles glanced across the hall, where a small window led into another part of the station. He turned to Rachel.

“I will take care of your kids and I swear, Rachel, I swear I will come back for you. Surrender to them so they won’t hurt you.”

“Miles—what? No. You’re not leaving me anywhere….”

He gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and darted across the hallway. He smashed painfully through the window, stumbled on the other side and was gone.

Rachel tried to follow but strong, merciless arms grasped her before she could even get close. The tightness in her chest had little to do with their grip.

\--

They returned to Independence Hall almost immediately, but no one would tell her what had happened.

Monroe had returned bloodied and enraged; after losing two battles there was little reason that could calm him. Not only had he lost Miles a second time, but he had been fully prepared to chase after the fugitives with the helicopters he had so painstakingly salvaged. Rachel’s destruction of the amplifier earned her several hard strikes at his hand, until Captain Baker stepped in, reminding Monroe gently that they should mobilize soon. The general had glared at him, but stalked off to plan their return to the city.

As the select few stationed at the plant began their trek, Rachel saw no other captives; her hopes were high that all had escaped unharmed.

Except her, she meditated on the bumpy ride back.

She was still stuck, headed back to either death or still more endless hours spent pacing the worn hardwood floors of her cage.

But something had changed.

The initial dread in anticipation of a reunion with her long absent children had subsided. Instead, the thought of both as the passionate individuals they were filled her with a warm, bubbly pride.

There were still far too many bonds to mend, some of which were probably irrevocably broken, but her children were no longer just baby pictures and an abstract collection of dreams and inferences floating around her head; they were tangible beings with their own dreams and drives and quirks. She wanted to be let back into their world and nothing made her want to give up more than the thought that she never would.

She had to survive for them. And she most certainly was not going to wait for Miles to come back for her.

Rachel had her own plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the quick pacing of this first chapter; it mainly serves to set up the AU. The situation as it is seems may not appear very different from Rachel’s captivity prior to the Fall finale, but there are certain things that I think will aid the story which happened in the finale (if that makes any sense). Looking forward, I expect that the major players in this will be Rachel (of course), Neville, Bass, Baker, Julia and hopefully later on integrating Miles, Charlie & Co. (because Rachel+her kids needs to happen). As per usual, forgive lack of detailed knowledge about weaponry, hand to hand combat, and military structure. Also, I do not own anything (alas) and this is simply for entertainment purposes.


	2. Chapter 2

Rachel awoke to sunlight streaming through pale cream curtains. It was back to this.

Sitting up and running a hand through her slightly curly hair, she glanced around the room. Bass had generally allowed her privacy, but would randomly send someone in to make sure she was not busy tying sheets together and going out the window.

While she was accustomed to waking up with a guard stationed inside the room on occasion, she was not accustomed to waking up to find Major Neville perched on her window seat.

“I was unaware that a Major’s duties included watching sleeping hostages,” she quipped after she had managed to dispel some of her grogginess.

“Only ones that accost people with screwdrivers and hammers.”

Rachel smirked as if to say ‘fair enough.’

“How is Sergeant Strausser?”

“Alive, but struggling. And he’s certainly looked better.”

“I thought he could use a nose job.”

Major Neville almost laughed.

“Tell me Mrs. Matheson, what makes you so feisty this morning? You’ve just lost your family again.”

She ignored his question, lessening the blunt of that blow, and nodded at a slight bruise marring his jaw.

“Rough night?”

“I made some people mad.”

Rachel figured that it was as much of an answer as she was going to get. Not having to time to waste with more bullshit, she went straight to the point.

“Where are my kids?”

“Miles escaped with them.”

She did not know what she had been expecting.

“What happens now?” she questioned.

Neville raised his eyebrows. “What happens with what?”

“With me?”

“I’m afraid that’s privileged information.”

“Sure it is…” she murmured under her breath, pushing back the covers and crawling out of the ornate bed. A pair of eyes watched her across the dawn filled room.

She padded over towards the table, the wood cold against the soles of her feet. Barely visible in the morning light lay a pile of clothes for her.

Rachel tried to regain the presence she occasionally managed with her captors, but out of bed she felt bulky and vulnerable in her loose pajamas. She carried through anyway.

“I want to keep working,” she announced to him.

“I’m sorry?” replied a slow drawl.

“I want access to my notes and books and to continue with what I was working on before—why the power went out.”

Major Neville moved away from the window seat.

“Why?”

“Why?” she echoed, mocking, “Because otherwise I fear I shall run mad.”

The Major examined her, a slow and steady look meant to peel her apart. Still, he knew too well that Rachel had a poker face to give him a run for his money.

After a moment he spoke.

“Here’s what I’ll do. You put some clothes on and I’ll take your request to the General. If you try anything, the answer is automatically no. But if you behave…we’ll see what General Monroe thinks.”

He moved to lean on the table across from her.

“But if I may be frank with you, Rachel. I don’t like this. You’ve never given us anything voluntarily. Why now? You’re playing at something.”

She leaned in to match him.

“Maybe I’ve had a change of heart.”

Another smirk.

“Get dressed.”

He headed towards the door, as Rachel reached for the clothes on the table.

“It’s a dress,” her unimpressed voice sounded from behind him, “And there aren’t any shoes.”

Opening the door, Neville responded over his shoulder.

“We’ve had a change of heart too. We decided that functionality wasn’t the best thing for you right now.”

With that, he left, making sure to turn the lock with extra force so that the woman inside could hear it.

\--

Neville returned about midday, a private following him with a plate of food.

“We thought you might be hungry,” he said, like they had undergone special accommodations just for her, and took a seat across the table, gesturing to an open chair.

Rachel crossed from the window silently; she had been painfully aware that her body wanted food.

“Please sit.”

“I was beginning to think Bass’ new plan was letting me starve.”

“He’s not very happy with you, Rachel.”

“What else is new?”

She took the seat and pulled the plate towards her. Although she may have been starving, she still had every intention of matching Major Neville’s polite façade. Picking up the fork and knife gracefully, she began to cut the food.

“You should be more careful. Monroe is more easily angered now; some would say he could easily be pushed too far. We wouldn’t want anything permanent to happen to you.” A fake smile spread across his tight lips.

“You could care less if I was dead, Major. And it sounds like maybe it’s you who should be more careful.”

“Excuse me? Threatening me is hardly going to—”

“What do you care about, Major Neville?”

Rachel raised the fork to her mouth, took a bite and chewed slowly, eyes locked on him.

“The Monroe Republic and its officers and men.”

Rachel swallowed.

“Bullshit.”

Neville was unamused.

“You can taunt me all you want, make meaningless threats, demand to be allowed to work. But you are still the one back sitting there in that fancy chair, locked in a room, wearing not even shoes, eating our food and at our mercy.”

He paused, letting his gaze linger for what he thought was uncomfortably long on her. “What is that you want, Mrs. Matheson?”

She finished another bite and continued.

“You care about your son.”

He was silent.

“Don’t you, Major? I’ve seen him around. I remember what you said to Brad. What was it?”

“It’s easy to be self-righteous when it’s not your child on the line,” Neville unexpectedly supplied, “What of it?”

“Well, it’s not so easy when it’s your child on the line, Tom.”

He drummed his fingers on the table, questioning.

“I think we’re done here,” he said after a moment.

Gesturing to the guard, the same private returned, clearing Rachel’s plate even with a few bites left on it.

“You’ll be escorted each day to another room to work, where I will oversee you. General Monroe has promised that you’ll have access to whatever research you did with us or prior to the Blackout.”

Neville rose hastily to leave.

“He’ll bring me my old research?”

“Monroe wants power. But I must say, he’s equally disappointed and pleased that he won’t have to continue torturing you for your help.”

Rachel smiled sarcastically at him from her chair.

"He's disappointed or you are?"

He smiled to match hers.

"Why, Mrs. Matheson, I've never wanted any harm to befall you."

She rose, delicately and deliberately placing her fingers on the table in front of her.

“Thank you Major Neville," she finished, "You’ve been very helpful."

Then, as peaceably, graciously and belittling as she could, she added, “I look forward to working with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this slowed down a bit! Also, sorry if my characterizations are a bit off; it's something I struggle with and have been trying to work on. Thanks for reading and there's more to come (I realize that there is very little of plot so far, although a few traces have begun to emerge).


	3. Chapter 3

It was Baker who escorted her to another room to work the next day. His silence most of the way was unexpected, but welcome. Rachel had many thoughts to sort out and a verbal grapple with the Captain was not what she needed.

There had been no visits from Bass in the day or so they had been back—yet another welcome surprise.

The room he brought her to was well-lit; instead of the damp, murky air in her bed chamber, several large windows with curtains thrown back let the occasional sun break into the space. An old fashioned chalkboard stood against the wall, blank and eager for knowledge to be once more scribbled across its used surface. Books and journals she had slaved for years to hide from Monroe (while still secretly documenting her theories) were placed with care on a large table, several spread open to reveal her intentionally unreadable handwriting and crude diagrams. A stack of newer paper—the Militia’s supplies had yet to fail her—accompanied the notes.

As did the partially destroyed amplifier.

Rachel nodded towards it, addressing the waiting Captain.

“I take it I’m supposed to rebuild this for Monroe.”

“It shouldn’t be too much ask, seeing how you’re responsible for its destruction,” he replied.

She went over to the mangled piece of machinery, eyeing the damage before turning back to Baker.

“Can you tell General Monroe something for me, Captain?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Tell him that I could fix the amplifier—a trifle, really, now that I’ve done it once. Or I could work on what I need to work on—and hand him something much bigger. I could bring back the power everywhere.”

Baker scoffed, but kept listening.

“But,” Rachel continued, “tell him that won’t happen if he insists on forcing me to finish that damn amplifier.”

He studied her for a minute.

“Alright,” he finally responded, “I’ll tell him.”

Lowering herself into a chair at the table, Rachel pulled her books towards her, located a pencil and began flipping pages rapidly. Baker, deciding that she had settled well enough into the space, opened the door.

“Have a good day, Mrs. Matheson,” he stated, perfunctory.

The flipping ceased.

“Captain,” she stopped him, “I want you to tell Monroe one more thing. He is going to benefit from none of my research.”

“None of it?” he countered, “Seems drastic.”

“I won’t share anything with him. Not until I know _exactly_ where my children are.”

Jeremy shut the door and slowly moved towards Rachel, squeaky, tired boots on a worn floor.

“Rachel—” he began, confirming that he had her attention, “I can tell you where your children are.”

She was silent; the toying, calculating façade recently so heightened threatened to slip.

“Where?”

“On the run again. We don’t know. Would Bass be such a mess if he knew where Miles and the kids had gone?”

She let out the breath she had been holding, irritated.

“That’s helpful,” her sarcastic voice answered, not masking very well its true concern.

Rachel retreated, concentrating too hard on the book in front of her again.

“We know as much as you do, Rachel.”

He moved closer to table.

“Besides,” he continued, “Do you really want your kids here with you again? Within Monroe’s reach again?”

Her head jerked up.

“Are you trying to comfort me?” she questioned angrily, all pretense gone, “Or is everyone just in the habit of calling their General unstable right now? Don’t try to placate me or—or calm me—I was only asking—I just need…I just want…”

She trailed off, attempting to restore the mask she had unintentionally let slip.

“I need to know—” she struggled, “I want my children, Jeremy.”

He was quiet for a moment, earnest eyes fighting to meet his gaze.

“I know,” he said.

“No,” sounded Rachel’s low, suddenly vulnerable voice, “You don’t know.”

With limited movement she lowered her head back to her books, the only sound in the room the soft scratching of pencil against paper.

The conversation had, unequivocally, ended.

Captain Baker retreated, shutting the door gently behind him; although he doubted she would even hear it, he was unwilling to disturb her.

\--

After throwing herself into work for a few hours, Rachel was sufficiently distracted.

She worked through the same complicated algorithm she had poured over for a decade, tedious, frustrating work to many others. To her, however, it was the type of challenge she could deal with. Numbers made more sense than trying to decode intentions from words, true caring from fake smiles; it was another world, one where self-preservation was not always on her mind and strings of symbols and numbers did not threaten her loved ones.

When Major Neville came to check on her, he found her standing on a chair, a map morphed by sequences of numbers nonsensical to him growing beneath her rapidly moving hand on the chalkboard. A slight change in her position as he entered told him that she knew he was there, but the string of chicken scratches she wrote frightfully fast had to be completed first.

As she lowered herself down from the chair, wiping chalk off her hands and onto the dark, coarse dress they had given her, Neville spoke.

“Making progress?”

Rachel glanced up at the board.

“Yes—well, no, not really. I’ve only just fleshed out the last stage from last time I worked on it. But even then I still don’t understand what happened—I mean, the timing is off and if I did know what initiated—it shouldn’t have happened like—if the sequence somehow—”

She caught herself, realizing that her stream of thoughts would be of little interest or meaning to the Major.

“I just dropped by to see if you needed anything,” he said.

Rachel took a moment.

“I could use Ben.”

“Pardon?”

“You remember. Ben—my husband.” She paused. “The one you shot.”

Neville was silent.

“I meant like a snack or nap,” he replied in time, “But you seem to have it under control.”

“No,” she negated, shaking her head, “Ben was the one who knew everything. I only have pieces; I’ll have to work through the details still.”

Neville picked up a sheet of paper from the mess she had made of the table.

“Even if you’re still lying about Ben knowing everything,” he mused, glancing up at her for any sign of deceit, “at least you’ve carefully documented what you have already figured out.”

He looked carefully over the writing, a slight furrow tempting his brow.

“Mrs. Matheson, I don’t believe any of this is in comprehensible English.”

“Nope,” she said cheerfully, “It’s all numbers with annotations in—well, I’d tell you what language and shorthand, but I wouldn’t want to spoil the fun.”

Rachel approached him, the grin on her face challenging him to fight it.

“Writing your work in code won’t help you,” he explained plainly, “We have ways to make you tell us what it means, but you already know that.”

“Do you have six more years to spare?” She stood her ground. “That’s how long it took you to get me to talk. I’m ready to endure more.”

“Are you?” he questioned back, “You have people to live for now.”

“I have people to survive for now, Tom. I’ll endure.”

Neville chose not to respond.

“But,” she spoke lightly, studying the chalkboard with craftily construed interest, “What if I gave the solution up without torture? I might be willing to share.”

“Stop, Rachel. Monroe is finished with your games.”

“ _Monroe_ _,_ ” she sighed his name, disappointed. “Monroe, Monroe. Stop threatening me with what Monroe thinks. If you’re going to punish me for being an uncooperative captive, Major, then punish me.”

He closed the space between them, a forceful hand winding itself in her yellow hair.

“Don’t doubt for a moment that I could.”

She gave him sly half-smile.

“That’s why I like you. You’re not afraid to move into action. If you’re properly stirred into action.”

“We’re off topic,” he snapped, releasing her roughly, “Tell me how to read your research, or your next visit will be from Strausser.”

“I won’t tell Strausser,” she said plainly, “But I might tell someone else—if he were someone who knew what he was doing.”

She wandered away from him to the other side of the table, gathering a piece of chalk and heading towards the blackboard.

“A person still shrewd”—she brought the chalk down briskly on the board with a scratch—“and pragmatic enough”—she did it again—“to do what needs to be done, but with a wider vision.”

She began crafting a complicated series of circles between the two lines, the meaning of which was lost on the Major.

“Someone with a plan not for simple domination, but for restoration, with an understanding that things can be rebuilt, that this empire can do more than terrorize.”

Rachel stopped drawing and turned to face him.

“If someone was willing to take that burden, then I might consider sharing.”

She took a confident step back towards him.

“Of course, that is assuming that after he wrested power into his own hands, he would be selfless enough to resist the allure of it.”

Neville’s eyes never left her, but he broke into a subtle smirk.

“And what makes you think I’m selfless or strong enough?” he asked.

“Oh.” Rachel feigned surprise. “I wasn’t talking about you, Major Neville,” she said lightly, blue eyes boring into him, “That’d be treason.”

Again, he found himself trying to size her up, only to be met by a cold, ambiguous stare.

“I’d like to get back to work now, if you please—” she finished.

A steady arm snaked out to grab hers.

“What do you mean, Rachel?” His voice was soft, a quiet threat.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it, Major.”

She headed back to the table, pulling her arm from his grasp; he let her go, but followed. Rachel reached the chair and his arm was back, forcing her down to sit. He reached around her and leaned forward on the table.

“If this is supposed to intimidate me, it’s not working," she said.

“Someone is going to come and visit you soon,” he said, his voice hardly above a whisper, “And I want you to listen to them very carefully.”

Rachel leaned in.

“There’s a private right outside that door, you know,” she whispered back mockingly.

“I know.”

She glared up at him, searching for answers.

“I’m not afraid to move into action, Rachel.” 

He straightened and went to leave, her eyes never leaving his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we progress slowly forward...hopefully this was interesting. I'm realizing that I write like I'm writing a play--lots of two-handers with lots of dialogue in one location. I guess I'm trying to focus on getting the characterization down better and that's easier with less distractions (if that makes any sense). Anyway, thanks for reading and more to come!


	4. Chapter 4

Rachel was locked in her bedroom the next day, sequestered from her work at, she could only assume, Neville’s request. She had expected there to be a backlash from him. Mostly she slept and she paced. She tried reading but made it about a page before she was reading the same paragraph over and over, her brain distracted and refusing to comprehend the words.

Often her mind was stuck on her work in the other room and she itched to return to her chalkboard and books, to logic her way through the problems and snags of that world instead of this.

Other times, she struggled to banish the images of Charlie and Danny out of her mind. It was hard; she watched their childlike faces merge into their young adult counterparts and wondered how long it would be before she forgot both versions entirely.

After dinner, her third meal of the day filled with fruitless attempts to get the private who delivered it to talk, she went to bed early.

Not that she slept.

She tossed and turned, old scars and new bruises crying out, watching the moon cast pale shadows that floated across the room as the night wore on. Strange ghosts of her past she could have sworn she saw in the dim light of the otherworldly hours before dawn, symptoms of her reminiscing during her day of isolation.

 She would wake entirely sure that the pillow next to her was Ben, soft snoring giving way to a sleepy grumble that it was her turn to check on the kids. As she tried too hard to sleep again, eyes squeezed shut, the squeak of a door hinge elsewhere reverberated through her brain like a child’s laugh, a baby girl entertained by a stupid cartoon. But the worst was when she opened her eyes to study the dark and in the shadows stood a lanky man, features blurred but with a bony hand extended and an unmistakable voice declaring gently that he just wanted to be friends. She would roll over, to see another man emerge, this one’s dark hair morphing fairer and smiling, wolfish eyes the most prominent, exploring, undressing, undoing her as they danced across her body like palpable icy fingers from the shadows and she was wrong, he was the worst as he was here and the pain he caused never ended and never would.

A hand brushed across her sweaty forehead and Rachel inhaled sharply.

A brighter, blurry world flooded her view as she opened her eyes, rolling her head to the other side see who occupied this new reality. Neville’s face came into focus as the world righted itself as much as it could.

“Tom—” Her voice was dry, the echoes of her nightmares still heavy.

"It’s time for work, Rachel,” he ordered her, “Get dressed.”

“What?”

An arm she could have sworn was not connected to the disembodied face of the Major floating above pushed her into a sitting position and continued to encourage her out of the covers and onto her feet.

“Who gave you this job?” She tried to orient herself by starting up the vicious rapport she seemed to remember they had.

“I did,” Neville responded as she found her way slowly to the closet containing her few articles of clothing, “He wanted to wake you, but I convinced him to wait.”

After she was dressed, Neville took her elbow and guided her to the door.

“I can walk by myself,” she protested, but he ignored her.

She was finally awake and aware enough to notice the genuine concern manifested in his furrowed brow and unusually hard eyes.

“You have a visitor,” he muttered to her urgently, lips close to her ear, as they reached the hallway and began to cover ground rapidly.

“Is this the super secret friend—”

“No,” he cut her off in a hushed tone, “Stay smart. I—we don’t need you getting injured.”

“Tom, who—”

He shushed her as they reached the door to her workroom, regaining his composure quickly. Neville opened the door and led her gently into the room.

“Thank you, Major. I hope she wasn’t too much trouble.”

Rachel had not seen Bass for the past few days, but she now understood why.

He sat at the table, in the chair she usually claimed as her own. He had placed his feet on the table carelessly, resting them on the notes and books that were currently her lifeblood. As he studied her, Rachel realized that Monroe had been sleeping about as well as she had, but drinking far more.

Bass laughed, ending in a dangerous grin.

“You look like hell, Rache,” he finally declared.

Quips raced through her mind, but she knew better than to incite him. She glanced at Neville, who met her eye with a quiet warning to tread carefully.

“Sergeant Strausser,” Bass called across the room.

 Lurking by the door, he stepped forward. Strausser was still heavily injured, green and purple bruises peppering his face but on the mend. The crook in his nose would take a while to heal, if ever.

“Please bring Rachel closer.”

Grabbing a silent Rachel by the arm, he brought her to the end of the table.

“Now please hit Major Neville.”

Neville scowled in surprise, but waited to see what would happen.

“Sir—”

“Do it.” His voice was hard and although he may have been inebriated, no one was going to argue.

Without pause, Strausser delivered a well aimed, powerful punch, knocking Neville off balance to take a few steps back.

Bass’ eyes had never left Rachel. Her face remained unchanged as she watched the altercation.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

As unpredictable as he was, Rachel sensed a momentary mildness as his eyes locked onto hers.

“I thought we were done with games,” she spoke quietly to him.

He laughed again, making her jump slightly.

“But they’re so much fun.”

“Again and again and again—” she both sighed and asked.

“We do the same stupid shit.”

 He let his hand fall on the table, puncturing the unforgiving air. Suddenly, he was on his feet, tripping over the chair as he moved and trying to cover up his error.

Bass reached out a clunky hand as he neared Rachel. She stayed in place but was certainly contemplating a potential escape.

“We forget,” Bass stated steadily, focusing on his words, “what is important to us. We forget the things we truly care about until we lose them. Again.”

His hand cupped the side of her face, a tender thumb stroking her cheek. Rachel felt his drunken musing more deeply than she knew she should let herself.

“What do you truly care about?” he asked, exploring her face and anxious eyes.

“Bass—what do you want?”

“Fix my goddamn amplifier, Rachel.”

“That’s all?”

She tried to smile, to please him, anything to get his clumsy hand off her face. “I can have that done in a day or two, as soon as you want.”

He moved back, away from her and reached toward the table. He returned with a book and some of her notes.  After perusing them, he looked back up at her. An uncomfortable, threatening silence stung the air. The cruelty in his eyes was back.

He ripped a page out and held it up, examining it. He dropped it and it wafted to the floor, soon followed by more.

“Is this what you care about? More than Miles or your family? Or me?”

“Certainly more than you, Bass,” she whispered, hurt and anger and fear starting to break through without warning.

She tried to hide her cringe as the book hit the wall.

“Bass…please.” Her voice was still low, not a plea but a quiet urging.

“I don’t think you understand, Rachel.”

He grasped forward, a swell of abrupt rage behind his movement, but she was quick; she fled toward the opposite end of the table.

“I’m not playing games with you,” he announced, his assertion undermined by a building ire, “I’m not torturing you and I’m not making any promises. _I_ want power.”

Now he was seething; the notes in his hand were torn on the spot violently with each emphatic statement.

“I don’t want the power back for the world. I don’t want anyone else to have it.”

Bass pushed more papers and books off the table, heavy boots tearing and wrinkling them as he surged forward.

“I don’t want _Miles_ to have it.”

The adrenaline of her flight and the mention of Miles only fed Rachel’s matching rage.

“This is about him, isn’t it?” her voice rose over his, “Last time you were this drunk he had tried to kill you. But no, it’s always about you and Miles. Not that damn amplifier or the world or god forbid the hundreds of innocents you slaughter—and _imprison_ —each day.”

The only thing stopping her from advancing on him was that he was a much greater force to be reckoned with at the moment. Still, there were only so many places she could go, and as her workspace fell to tatters, escape became more difficult.

“It’s always been about Miles,” he said solemnly, heading straight for Rachel, “And you’re one to talk about innocents.”

He reached her, angry fingers encircling her wrists to bring her body close to him.

“Bass…please—bringing back the power is good. You locked me away because you agreed it was.”

Now she was pleading through her anger, especially as her bare foot hit a page of ripped notes and she tumbled back. She hit the floor roughly, knocking the breath out of her.

“Good?” he sneered, kneeling over her, “I don’t care what is good. Not anymore. The power is mine. You are mine and your work is mine.”

She struggled to inch away and get up, succeeding only in further crumpling and mutilating pages of work beneath her.

“Bass, I’ll build your amplifier—I’ll build hundreds more. But I promise the power _will_ be yours when it’s back.”

“And then what? The world will return and no one will care about the Monroe Republic. You—you’ll be a savior…” he exclaimed, face contorting with frustration and torment, as he pinned her to her work and the cold floor.

“You could be the savior. I’ll never be one—” she offered. As she fought against him, hands clenching his jacket, she tried not to consider just how many lives those hands had taken and how willing they would be to take the one in front of her.

“Everything will change again…and they’ll leave me and you’ll leave…” he whimpered, collapsing on top of her, the irrational root of his panic discovered, “just like Miles—an—and my family.”

Tears had started to fall from his red eyes. He blinked them back, replacing the surge of emotion with a new ferocity. He grabbed a fistful of her hair.

“I won’t leave you, Bass,” she tried to pacify “I just want—”

“To leave, to kill me, to burn all I’ve build to the ground,” he laughed, pained and delirious, “You’ve tried it all before, Rache.”

“And how could you blame me?” she spat into his face, now inches from hers, “After all you— _and Miles_ —have done to me and my family.”

 A bony knee connected with his groin and he rolled off as she squirmed away.

Bass clambered to his feet, still attempting to smirk through the pain. Rachel rose with him, trying to ignore the already forming bruises and her vulnerability, standing alone in her thin blue dress amongst the white ruins of her work.

“It’s always a pleasure fighting with you, Rachel,” he conceded as he caught his breath.

He turned to Major Neville and paused.

He clapped him on the back, awkwardly. “Keep her working, Major.”

Bass stumbled towards the door.

“Strausser—” he began.

The sergeant stood at attention still near Neville, his interest in the scene that had just occurred plainly written across his face.

“Remind Mrs. Matheson who we are and what we can do. And make sure Neville has her begin work on _my_ agenda. As soon as she’s recovered.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And more...one of the issues with writing as the series unfolds is that new things added to canon can complicate stuff. In the most recent webisode, Bass was so insistent about the power and it was difficult to work with that, given my notion of where this scene was going. But I hoped it worked and more characters (and plot I swear I'll get to that thing called plot) are coming! Thank you for reading!


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